


Only In My Dreams

by IdCrossEveryLineForHim



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Dreams, M/M, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Pining, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Read at Your Own Risk, Saucy, Smut, SnowBaz, Spicy, Watford (Simon Snow), Watford Sixth Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 23:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16902138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdCrossEveryLineForHim/pseuds/IdCrossEveryLineForHim
Summary: Sometimes, Baz has dreams. They usually happen when he is trying to ignore Simon, and pretend he doesn't exist. And they usually include warm hands, and sweaty hair, and a certain mouth breathing idiot . . .Basically, ignoring Simon Snow never goes well for him."Slowly, I became aware of someone pressed all the way along my bare back, every inch of them plastered against me. They felt familiar, and I didn’t even ask myself who that person was – they were simply themself, simply the other half of my soul. I didn’t bother thinking anymore about this. The heat was coming from them. It seeped into the base of my spine, the nape of my neck, the backs of my thighs."





	Only In My Dreams

Baz

 

Sometimes, I have really terrible dreams. And by really terrible, I mean really amazing. Excruciatingly, deliciously, terribly amazing.

They usually happen when I've been focusing on school single-mindedly, diligently ignoring Simon. When I don't allot time in my day to daydream about him, or stare at him, or spare too many barbed comments in his direction. I pretend my mind doesn't unerringly slink off to thoughts about Simon Snow all the fucking time. Sometimes, I feel proud of myself for managing it for so long (by so long, I mean a week at most). But my stupid fucking infatuation (sometimes I call it _just_ an infatuation to make myself feel better) with him wouldn’t leave me alone. Snow wouldn’t even leave me be in my own damn mind. Also, spending all of last summer after fifth year entertaining dangerous thoughts in the privacy of my own bedroom probably didn’t help me, either.

I had snuck in late at night after my trip to the catacombs, hoping Snow would already be asleep so I wouldn’t have to talk to him or look at him or think about him. I kept my eyes on my side of the room and ignored the lump of blankets breathing softly on the other side of the room. After I quietly got ready for bed and put on my pajamas, I slipped between the cool sheets, hoping that I could slip into unconsciousness without thinking about anything, about what I wanted and what I couldn’t have. I was so tired. I could feel the exhaustion tugging at my bones, and I could feel Snow tugging at my eyes, my body begging me to turn my head and just look at him. I felt a frustratingly thrill of anger thrum inside me, and pointedly shut my eyes and did _not_ move.

I managed to avoid thinking about pale, delicate skin dotted with freckles, stretched over muscle and imagining how Simon’s face would look with my lips pressed against his neck. Yep, I entirely managed avoiding that train of thought as sleep dragged me down.

 

 

It was so warm. I sighed, loving the warm weight cocooning me in sweet, blissful oblivion. There was no light, only the sensation of being safe and held in heat. My contentment wrapped around me, choking off any other thoughts except for the hope that this could last forever. The blissful warmth and heat increased, and I reveled in it. Slowly, I became aware of someone pressed all the way along my bare back, every inch of them plastered against me. They felt familiar, and I didn’t even ask myself who that person was – they were simply themself, simply the other half of my soul. I didn’t bother thinking anymore about this. The heat was coming from them. It seeped into the base of my spine, the nape of my neck, the backs of my thighs.

There was an arm wrapped around my torso, holding me flush against them. There was breath tickling the back of my neck, an over abundance of curls leaving light touches of fire against my skin as wet lips slowly kissed the top of my spine, mouthing at the body protuberance there. The hand on my torso pressed against my abdomen, feeling like a brand against my skin, following the heat that flicked and swirled straight into the pit of my stomach. As the hand started rubbing lower, putting pressure near my hips, I realized the heat had burst and was blazing along the erection I hadn’t yet registered. My breath rushed out as his hips ground into mine, his hand trapping me into the motion. I felt a stiffness pushing against me, demanding friction from my ass. The hand moved down, and the ghost of a large, calloused hand settled over the bulge in my pants. He didn’t apply any pressure, just left it there for a moment. It was sweet torture. I think I was panting slightly. His lips moved to the space between my neck and shoulder, his mouth hot and slow and consuming and I just lay there, pliant and tensed all at once, my head surrendered on the pillow and my body open to him. He could do anything to me, and I would let him.

His hand rested there for a moment, moving slightly up and down, feeling me grow steadily under the caress. First he used his whole hand, palm and fingers brushing from top to bottom, outlining the shape of me in my underwear. Then he just used the tips of his fingers, dragging his nails up the shaft until he made it to the head, which he ground his palm down on, ripping sounds from my throat and forcing my hips into his hand.

That made him growl, his ridiculous growl that was so animalistic. His dragged his hand up, then forced it into my pants, and then his hand, calloused from that damn sword, was wrapped around me. The feel of his skin against mine was everything; he was right where I wanted him.

He dragged his hand up, towards the pre-come leaking from my slit. He rubbed his thumb against it aggressively, and then spread it around the head. He made a circle under the head with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing upward around the pulsing bulb until a deliciously obscene squelching noise happened as his hand rubbed up to the very tip then back down again. He wrapped all his fingers around me, coating me in the sticky liquid. If I could see, I knew it would be glistening and red.

Suddenly, his hips were again pushing against my backside, but this time, he used his hand against my dick to trap my body against his grinding hips, pushing me down against the mattress slightly. The friction of his hand trapped against the mattress against me was perfect, and then his hips were still grinding down on me, becoming more and more forceful.

“Fuckin hell,” I heard myself say, unsure if I wanted to grind against his dick, hard against me, or his hand rubbing against me inside my pants. I settled for both, my hips picking up momentum. My heart was beating so fast. There was no space between our bodies, and every movement of his body shoved me deeper against his palm.

His mouth was still licking at my neck, and he switched to the other shoulder as he breathed, “Baz,” and his movements became more frantic as he began chasing something close.

I groaned at the electric current blitzing through me, fizzling where his mouth was and building in my dick. It was climbing through me. I thought about the shape of his hand around me, solid and big with the stubby fingers, the luminescent forearm coated with gold hair, the feel of his stomach muscles shifting against my firm back as he moved, what his face probably looked like shoved against my hair and neck and skin – eyes squeezed shut, golden curls slightly sweaty, breath panting past his open mouth, a flush stealing up his neck and blossoming on his cheeks as he . . .

Blinding sensation tore though me, a moan forming from my breath, and I couldn’t think. I couldn’t do anything but stutter my hips into his hand, couldn’t do anything but _feel_ his palm cupping around me, moving up and down along me as I came.

Eventually, the pleasurable haze around me faded, and instead settled around me like a lulling weight. Arms were wrapped around me, skin against skin, warmth seeping into me and mixing with the swirling blackness of dreams.

 

 

_Bang_.

_Thud_.

What the fuck.

Something was making noise. Weak light was making the room pale and a little too bright. Why was I awake right now?

Oh, right. It was Snow waking up at the crack of dawn for his fucking scones, and not bothering to be quiet!

I cracked one eye open, squinting against the early morning creeping through the window. I could see Simon blundering around, gathering his things, hitting his desk chair with his leg and slamming his wardrobe door too loudly. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. The sight of his sinewy shoulders, pale and covered in freckles, the curve of his spine and the pajama bottoms hanging onto his hips . . . it all came crashing back. My dream.

No. No, no, no.

I groaned out loud in frustration and embarrassment. Snow turned around to look at me; his blue, open gaze meeting mine immediately. His hair was a mess, curly and wobbly and flickering with glints of gold on his head, and falling into his still sleepy eyes. He looks ridiculously gorgeous.  _Are you fucking kidding me?_ I think, before throwing my pillow right into his face.

He makes an ‘ _oof_!’ sound. “What was that for?!” he grouses.

“You woke me up, you git!” His voice, still rough from sleep, only pisses me off further.

“Sorry!” He doesn’t throw the pillow back, just tosses it onto the floor near my bed. Wanker.

He continues collecting his things, shutting himself up in the bathroom. I turned over, burying my face into the mattress and fought off the urge to scream.

Can I never have a moment’s peace? Can I never escape him? Fucking hell. Even when I force myself to stop thinking about him, he slams back into my thoughts when I can’t stop him – aggressively – and in full force. I scrunch my eyes tight, and then pull myself together.

I’ll just wait until he gets out of the bathroom and leaves for breakfast. Then I’ll get up and take a shower, and get ready for class. I resign myself to this plan, and tell myself that today isn’t going to suck as much as I think it will.

So, yeah. Terrible, horrible, deliciously irritating dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this is my first fic ever! Please tell me how terrible it was. Or how good it was. It's very saucy. I'm a little embarrassed by how saucy, but lets be real. Teen Baz definitely had these kind of dreams, and was probably very irritated about it. I fully believe this could've happened, since BAZ IS A SPICY BOY. Exhibit A: "I'm disturbed. Ask anyone."


End file.
